


Words to Live By

by sparrow2000



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-05-05 08:10:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5367905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparrow2000/pseuds/sparrow2000
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sunnydale collapses, Xander gets an unexpected visitor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Words to Live By

**Author's Note:**

> Type: Gen  
> Warnings: A little bit of angst...  
> Disclaimer: Joss and Mutant Enemy et al, own everything. I own nothing.  
> Comments and feedback are cuddled and called George, either here or on the original post on my [LJ](http://sparrow2000.livejournal.com/157873.html)  
> Beta extraordinaire, as always: thismaz

**Words to Live By**

The first night he slept on the bus. The motel only had so many free rooms and he refused to share with Andrew or Giles. Hell, if Buffy had offered him a bunk bed he’d have turned it down, and he acknowledged that the teenage boy he’d been when they’d first met by was irrevocably dead and gone.

The second night he made it as far as the lean-to at the back of the motel. It stored hire bikes, garden equipment and the kind of domestic construction detritus that would be almost comforting, if it didn’t make his stomach want to heave. He grabbed some cushions from the loungers that were meant to go around a pool that hadn’t been filled in years and closed his ears to Willow’s protestations. He wasn’t on the bus anymore and if that wasn’t progress, he didn’t know what else he had to offer.

On the third night he made it inside. Granted, Willow had coaxed him in with the promise of a room to himself and he’d allowed himself to be lured, following her soft voice and her trail of single bed breadcrumbs, until it was too late to turn tail and run back for the sanctuary of the lean-to. Once he was inside, he’d almost had to shove her out of the door to stem the flow of concern and resolve faces and offers of herbal tea. With the door firmly shut at his back, he shuffled towards the bed and stood staring at the shiny floral quilt cover. It had yellow roses and purple tulips, garish and wrong against a background of red and blue and he felt like he would slide off and never stop falling if he touched it. Pulling the edge of his sleeve down over his fingers, he reached out to shove it to the side. He jerked his hand back as the quilt slithered to the floor, a snake shedding its skin. It revealed a crumpled dark green sheet and pillow case and he perched gingerly on the end of the bed, the backs of his knees banging hard against the metal frame.

The carpet was dark brown and tufted. There was a fleeting temptation to take off his boots and socks and flex his toes in the tufts, just to see if there was a part of him that could still feel sensation. His vision blurred and, for a second, he could picture his toes, purple painted despite his protests, after Anya had read in Cosmo that getting in touch with his feminine side would make a man a more considerate lover. He stifled a sob and scrubbed the back of his hand over his eye. Flexing his toes in his boots he looked down, but all he could see was dull brown leather and the ragged edge on the welt that he hadn’t got around to getting repaired in between fixing the windows.

“So this is what survival looks like, Mr Harris. Congratulations, if that’s the right word?”

Xander pushed himself up off the bed, eye wide as he turned towards the voice. D’Hoffryn leaned casually against the door to what Xander assumed was the bathroom. “What the hell do you want?” he asked.

“Want, Mr Harris? You wound me. I don’t want anything. Can’t an old acquaintance drop in to offer condolences?”

D’Hoffryn looked just as Xander remembered – long, rusty coloured robes, droopy grey moustache and a goatee tied in a small, neat tail. If it wasn’t for the horns, Xander thought he could pass as an extra from any one of the parties from the ‘60’s that Uncle Rory talked about. But then, the way Rory embellished tales when it came to his younger, party animal self, horns weren’t necessarily a deal breaker.

“Nothing to say, Mr Harris?”

D’Hoffryn’s voice, soft and slightly mocking, pulled Xander back to himself. “You do remember the last time we met?” he said. “You know, when you punished Anya by killing Halfrek. You remember Hallie, don’t you? I don’t think I need your condolences, thanks all the same. And that was me being sarcastic, in case you didn’t realise.”

D’Hoffryn shrugged. “Well, have them anyway - my condolences, that is. Anyanka will always be dear to me, even if she did need taking in hand now and then.” He smiled. “I really don’t want anything. But you – you want, don’t you? What do you-“

“Don’t say it.” Xander held up his hand, as if he could stop the words wriggling through the ether.

“Say what?”

“The ‘W’word. Don’t say it.”

D’Hoffryn tilted his head to the side as if Xander was a particularly fascinating specimen for study. “If you mean ‘want’, Mr Harris, why wouldn’t I say want?”

“Don’t play with me.” Xander took a step forward, and then almost immediately back again. He didn’t know whether he should try to kick the demon lord out, or run for the hills himself. Stagger for the hills was more like it, he thought. He couldn’t imagine having the energy to run anywhere ever again. “I know what you’re trying to do,” he said finally. “She’s dead. I hurt her and she died. I’m not going to wish she was here. I’ve already pulled one woman I loved out of heaven. Even I’m not stupid enough to do it again.”

“You think she’s in heaven?”

Xander nodded. “If there’s any justice, yes. I know she did a lot of terrible things over the years, but she died fighting. She deserves her rest.”

“And what do you deserve?”

D’Hoffryn sounded genuinely curious and all of a sudden a new wave of tiredness crashed over Xander. He felt like the slow leak of energy that had been sapping him for days had finally run its course and there was nothing of substance left of him but skin and bone and a brain that somehow wouldn’t shut up, while everything else had shut down. He slumped down on to the edge of the mattress and poked at the quilt cover with the toe of his boot. It slid over the leather like a snake. “I have no idea what I deserve.”

“No ambitions?”

“Apart from a whole night’s sleep and a clean set of underwear? Maybe an invisibility shield so I don’t actually have to talk to anyone ever again. Well, not everyone. But some people.”

D’Hoffryn raised an impressive eyebrow. “Young Mr Wells, for instance?”

Xander half shrugged. Even the smallest movement felt like he was climbing a mountain.

“Don’t you just-“

“No,” Xander shouted. “For fuck’s sake, I said no. Anya liked him. God knows why, but she did. I hate the little shit for being there with her, even though I’m glad she wasn’t alone. I hate him for trying to make me feel better by making up stupid heroic tales like she was a character in one of his D&D fantasies. She didn’t make it out and I know, I know it was probably terrifying and bloody and it hurt. And he might have been there, but that doesn’t mean she wasn’t alone. And I hate that the guy is making himself feel better by making a romance out of her death.” He tailed off, breathing hard. He studied the matted tufts of the carpet before looking back up. “And I hate that I want to believe him. Because what the hell does that say about me?”

“If Anyanka was here, she would say that, in itself, was narcissistic.”

“Yeah, she always did hit the nail on the head.” Xander rubbed the back of his hand over his eye patch again. The socket throbbed.

“What will you do now?”

“I have no idea." Xander slumped forward, elbows on his knees and ran his right thumb listlessly over the calluses on the palm of his left hand. He avoided the base of his ring finger. "Can’t do construction. Even with the whole measure twice, cut once mantra I had for a while, one eye doesn’t really work in that line of business. Don’t have the superhero thing going on. We don’t have a base, so I can’t even fix the windows. Got any suggestions?" he asked. His voice was snide, even to his own ears. "It’s not like I really want them, but everyone else has put in their two cents worth whether I want it or not, so you might as well have a go while you’re here.”

“Your candour is something I’ve always appreciated, Mr Harris. As for suggestions, well you know, I just might.”

Xander looked up quickly and the room seemed to tilt as a wave of dizziness hit. He could feel himself slipping, as if the quilt was sliding out from under him, even though he wasn’t sitting on it. The carpet seemed to shift under his feet, tufts gaping and yawning, creating gaps he could slide between, losing himself.

Gripping the edge of the sheet hard, he pushed himself up, his fists bunched, ready for a fight. He planted his feet firmly on the ground, grinding the carpet into submission. Another push and he was one pace, then two, away from the bed. Then it was just a turn and his back was against the door, the handle digging into the small of his back. “Oh no. You are so not offering me a job. I’m not Willow. Rewind the previous conversation about no super powers. No magic. Not grade A recruitment material in any field.”

D’Hoffryn took one step forward. With his robes sweeping the floor he seemed to glide and for a second Xander was reminded of the Gentlemen, the night everyone lost their voices. “I think you underestimate yourself,” D’Hoffryn said.” I think you have a strong sense of justice. You said before about Mr Wells, that you hated that he made himself feel better by making a grand romantic gesture about Anyanka’s death. It’s called rationalisation. Sometimes it’s unintentional. Sometimes deliberate. But it’s always self-involved.”

“They never really mean it. Not really, because it’s always about them,” Xander whispered.

“Exactly.”

“But – "

“There are lots of men out there like that, Mr Harris. Seeing women hurt, even if they are not doing it themselves. And when the woman is hurt, or worse, they sing her praises and talk about her worth. A woman’s worth is a wonderful thing when she’s not there to bother someone with it. The drunk whose wife dies rescuing the kids from a burning car. The girlfriend who runs in front of a bullet meant for him. The mother who takes the punch meant for the teenage son who’s already got daddy’s DNA mapping out his future.”

“Bastards.”

“Not in the true sense, but the expression will suffice. Wouldn’t you like to do something about that? Show those men that they can’t get away with those things?”

Xander froze. Back tense, hands splayed against the door. He braced his knees, but he could feel the tremors travelling up his legs. “What are you trying to say?”

“I’m not trying to say anything. I’m simply thinking back to watching Anyanka meting out vengeance.”

“I don’t believe in vengeance.” Xander heard himself say the words out loud. He repeated them in his head, as if the repetition could make them true.

“No, no you don’t,” D’Hoffryn agreed. His voice was sly. “But you do believe in justice.” He paused and took another step forward. Xander wanted to step back, but he already had his back to the door. “It’s funny,” he continued. “I was getting so irritated with Anyanka. At first, after your wedding fiasco, I was delighted to see her return to the fold. But then, I thought she’d gone off the boil as it were. She just wasn’t slotting back into her old creative groove. Then it struck me that humanity had given her another dimension. It taught her justice. I just didn’t give her the time to understand how to use it. I think I regret that now.”

“You regret it?” Xander echoed.

“I do.”

“But she had humanity before, when she was Aud. She told me about being Aud.”

“She was human,” D’Hoffryn corrected. “Humanity is a different thing. You taught her that.”

Xander closed his good eye. His lashes itched and the weight of the eyelid felt like he was wearing a second patch. The idea made this stomach flip flop and he was almost too terrified to open his eye again, in case he couldn’t see at all. He counted to ten, trying to breathe through the panic and the throbbing in his head gradually morphed into a gentle knock, knock, knock at the door. He blinked cautiously and his shoulders slumped as the hard light from the single bulb on the ceiling brought the motel room back into focus. The knock came again.

“Xander?” The voice on the other side of the door was high and shrill.

Xander stiffened and turned quickly, as if the cheap wood at his back was scalding. He glanced behind him and D’Hoffryn pursed his lips and withdrew into the bathroom. In another time Xander was sure he would have a hundred jokes about the vengeance demon hiding discreetly in a motel washroom, but his sense of humour was buried at the bottom of the Sunnydale crater, along with everything else that made up who he had once been.

There was another knock, this time more insistent. Xander scrubbed his hand through his hair and turned back to the door. His hand hovered over the handle, but he couldn’t bring himself to turn it. “What do you want,” he called. Despite the door between them, he could picture Andrew standing, shoulders hunched, hands in the pockets of his khakis. He’d have a superhero tee-shirt on, as if that could take him closer to the superheroes around him, and yes, he got the irony of despising the little shit for that.

“Um, hi,” Andrew said. “I hope you can hear me okay through the door, and I’m sure you can because you answered when I called, so I’m just going to talk and you can listen if you want. Sorry to bother you because I know you’re being all strong, silent type, withdrawing so you can deal with your grief without bringing other people down. Which is totally a Han Solo thing to do, with holding in your emotions. And Anya was your Leia, with the whole star-crossed lovers thing and fighting the good fight from different angles. But then Anya was kind of doing it for the money when she started, which would kind of make her Han, and you’d be Leia because you were doing it to stop the evil Empire because it was the right thing to do. And I was wondering if you-“

Xander banged his head quietly off the doorjamb. “Is there a point to this, apart from the emasculation and the Star Wars references?” He could hear Andrew shuffling from foot to foot outside.

“It’s just, you’re sitting up in your room,” Andrew continued.” Or at least, now, you’re talking through the door, which I guess is better than just sitting. And the girls are worried and I said I’d go see if you wanted to come down for pizza. Because, you know, it doesn’t matter if you’re Han or Leia, I’m like your R2D2. You put the card in and I’m the droid you’re looking for. She was so bright and good and she died and it’s my turn to do the right thing because she’s not here. She died saving me and it’s my fault. You're my redemption. You’re my only hope.”

Xander stepped back and stared at the door. The plywood was chipped around the handle and the hinges were crooked. One hard kick and it would be out of its frame and crashing across the covered walkway, over the railing and down into the empty swimming pool two floors below. The idea appealed and he pictured lifting his boot and kicking hard. If he was lucky Andrew would land at the same time as the door. If he was really lucky, the momentum from the kick would carry his own body forward and he’d pass both the door and Andrew on the way down.

“Xander?”

Andrew’s voice pulled Xander back to himself and he blinked. The door hung in one piece from its crooked hinges. It was still closed and Andrew was still on the other side of the thin plywood.

“Xander,” Andrew called again. “I’m going to go now. Because you know, one of the first rules of being a successful sidekick is knowing when to let the hero brood in peace. It’s like Alfred always knows when to let Bruce Wayne think deep thoughts and when to get the bat mobile ready. So I’m going to go and let you get some rest, so you can think about Anya and remember how amazing she was. When you’re ready, I’ll be right down stairs. Then we can sit around a campfire and sing songs and tell tales and celebrate her deeds. And one day, maybe, someone will sing songs and tell tales about your love for her and how we picked ourselves up and faced the darkness together. Because that’s what she would have wanted. But, but before that, I’ll just be downstairs.”

Andrew’s voice tailed off. Xander could hear his footsteps on the wooden walkway and then down the stairs, back into the motel courtyard with the empty pool. Resting his forehead against door, he felt as if the thin plywood was the only thing holding him up and he resisted the almost overwhelming desire to slide down it and curl up for the next hundred years.

“He means well.” D’Hoffryn’s voice was soft and close and Xander turned quickly. The room spun and he stared at his toes until the vertigo slowed down and eventually stopped. When he looked back up, D’Hoffryn was standing at the end of the bed. Xander hadn’t heard him move.

“What?”

“Mr Wells. You can’t fault his intentions. He is trying to make you feel better.”

“He’s trying to make himself feel better. Didn’t you hear him? He wants to be my R2D2 or my Alfred. He thinks we’re a fucking team. He wants us to grieve together so that one day people will tell tales about how Anya was mourned.”

“Don’t you want people in the future to mourn her? To know about her?”

“Of course I do. How can you even ask me that? But I want it to be about her. I don’t need people to hear about how I mourned. It’s not about me.“

D’Hoffryn coughed. “And Mr Wells wants it to be about him.”

“Haven’t we covered this ground already?”

“I believe so, but it bears repeating, don’t you think?”

“Bastard.”

“As you said.”

Xander glanced at the door and then back at D’Hoffryn. “I meant you, not him.”

“Really. Why?”

“Because you’re very good at what you do. You make my dislike for the little creep feel justified, instead of irrational. It’s very – “ He paused, groping for the word. “Seductive,” he said finally. “Not a word I ever thought I’d use about you, but the best one that comes to mind.”

D’Hoffryn’s teeth gleamed in the harsh light of the small room. “Who do you think taught Anyanka all she knew. Seduction takes many forms.”

“I’m getting that.”

“So are you seduced?”

“By your job offer?”

“Indeed.”

Xander stared at the rumpled bed in front of him. The garish quilt on the floor looked even worse under his second scrutiny and he felt like centuries had passed since he’d persuaded Willow to leave him alone. “Let me get this straight.” He scrubbed his hand against his cheek as if the action could marshal his chaotic thoughts. The four day stubble scraped against his palm. “Because god knows I wouldn’t want to misunderstand you. What you’re saying is that I could sign on and dole out justice to guys who get to walk away, while their girls get hurt, and they’re the ones who come out smelling of roses. And you want me to do this for Anya, because justice was something she’d learned from finding her humanity and it was different from vengeance. And you have regrets at not giving her long enough to find her feet and get her justice mojo really going. So being her ex-fiancé and the one that’s mourning her, you want to give me an opportunity to pick up where she left off?”

D’Hoffryn shrugged. “Slightly simplified, but in a nutshell, yes.”

“And what do you get? Apart from doing away with that uncomfortable regret stuff you’ve got hanging over you?”

“Me, Mr Harris? I think I get an operative who will excel. Who won’t stint in his efforts. I think I’ll get someone whose sense of justice will guide them.”

“That’s what you think, is it?” Xander said slowly. “And the fact that I’m a narcissistic bastard that wants to feel better by believing Andrew’s bullshit, even though I know its bullshit? Don’t I come under the category of one of those guys I’d be looking out for?”

“To quote a favourite fictional character of mine – you might think that, but I couldn’t possibly comment.”

Xander snorted. “So basically, this is your way of punishing me for hurting Anya. For giving her a taste of humanity and making you feel regret.”

D’Hoffryn sketched a small bow. “Remember, Mr Harris, never go for the kill, when you can go for the pain.”

Xander laughed. There was no joy in the sound. “Oh yeah, I remember. Kind of poetic, I suppose, if you’re into that kind of thing.” He jammed his hands in his pockets and looked around the room. The quilt lay where he’d shoved it on the floor. The green sheets were rumpled where he’d sat. The chair in the corner was a dull beige with a water stain on the top right of the back cushion and the table lamp on the narrow nightstand had a dull pink shade with a fringe that might once have been silver but had faded over the years to a dirty shade of grey. He hadn’t been in the bathroom, but he didn’t have to look to know that he’d find an ancient shower cubicle and a sink unit that had seen better days. He realised there wasn’t a closet anywhere, but since he didn’t have anything to put in it, it hardly seemed to merit an acknowledgement. He pictured Buffy and Willow and their rag tag of new Slayers sitting by the empty pool wondering what came next and the wave of longing and grief was almost overwhelming. He shoved the picture to the back of his head in the mental closet, along with all the other things that mattered. Finally he looked back to D’Hoffryn. “I know I’m going to regret this. But what’s one more regret among thousands. Let’s make Anya proud.”

“She will be,” D’Hoffryn said with another smile. He opened his arms and with an expansive gesture he bowed again and whispered “Done.” In a puff of smoke he was gone.

Xander laughed again and his breath hitched as the laugh threatened to turn into a wail. He kicked at the quilt at his feet, then turned and stared at the door. The hinges were still crooked and wood around the handle was still chipped, but it was what was outside that was important. Outside and two floors down was a little blonde bastard who was still alive while Anya wasn’t.

It was time he did something about that.

After that, well, there were thousands of self centred bastards out there needing a little bit of poetic justice. His old mantra of measure twice, cut once was dead and gone. ‘It takes one to know one’ were his new words to live by. Since he lost his eye, it wasn’t as if he looked in a mirror anymore, anyway.

Fin.....

**Author's Note:**

> A/N 1  
> I started thinking about this story after rereading Anna S’s wonderful Sidelines a while back. At one point there’s a passing reference to Xander thinking about Anya talking about being a vengeance demon and he pictures what kind of vengeance demon he’d be. As I say, that got me thinking about how he might find himself accepting such a job in the first place!
> 
> A/N 2  
> Re D’Hoffryn quoting from his favourite fictional character – it’s obviously from House of Cards. But before anyone thinks that the timeline is wrong, D’Hoffryn is quoting from the original BBC series from 1990, which the Kevin Spacey version is based on. D’Hoffryn strikes me as an old school kind of a demon. *g*


End file.
